


blue-eyed soul

by penisparker



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: some old shit i wrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penisparker/pseuds/penisparker
Summary: 'cause even superheros be depressy sometimes
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Donna Troy, Dick Grayson & Wally West, Dick Grayson/Roy Harper
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	blue-eyed soul

Dick is tired.

He’s more than tired, he’s exhausted. He’s aching for sleep. To close his eyes and not picture falling, to not feel crushing disappointment or the weight of it all would be a gift. But he can’t. To fall asleep for a second would mean another life lost, another case unsolved. More dead parents, more lost kids. He can’t allow that.

So, he stays awake. He’ll always be awake. 

\----

He opened his eyes, and saw the circus before him. The yearning for the lights, for the screams of an adoring crowd, for his parents, consumed him. His yearning was a fire that would never extinguish; a fire burning bright, deep in his soul. That’s how he knew he was dreaming. He peered at the tightrope before him, looked down at his parents smiling brightly at him below.

It was too much, but it wasn’t enough. The fire burns even brighter, and he wanted to pinch himself awake. Punch himself awake. Anything to make it stop. He knew he was dreaming, but he stepped onto the tightrope anyway. The screams were deafening. He walked to the center, balancing himself easily, before doing a flip. He never landed this flip, not as a child, and certainly not in his dreams - he fell in order to feel something. He’d rather fall, and keep falling, than picture his parents again. 

When he woke, his chest felt heavy. A ton of bricks, weighing him down, crushing him, he couldn’t breathe -- 

It was too much, but it wasn’t enough. He blinked once, twice, three times before he realized where he was. Safe, underneath a mountain of blankets, sweating. The heaviness dissipates, but doesn’t disappear.

It never does. 

\---  
All it takes is one look from Bruce to send him spiraling, his chest tightening. He smiles through it. “Too lighthearted for you, Bruce? We can’t all suffer, we can’t all be detached robots like --”

Bruce stops him right there. “Like me?” 

“Forget it.” His smile turns grim. He’s tired, he’s over it, he wants to move on. He respects Bruce too much to say anything he’ll regret in the morning, so he starts to walk away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bruce. Probably.”

\---

He enjoys sitting with Cass the most. She’s quiet, and sometimes he needs that. Tim is great, but overwhelming, Damian is exhausting at best, and Jason? They don’t speak often enough. When they do, their guards are high -- less like brothers, and more like stilted acquaintances. He wants to fix that, but he doesn’t know how, so he just half-heartedly tries. “Thanks, Cass.”

She doesn’t reply, but she knows. And he’s glad.

\---

He was sitting on the shower’s floor. His shower was nice to look at; it was made from obsidian stone that Alfred insisted on buying for him. “You may not be comfortable spending Bruce’s money, Master Grayson, but everyone deserves to pamper themselves.” He gave Dick a knowing look, and remembering that look took Dick out of his stupor. He has to get out of here. For Bruce, for Alfred. He can’t just lay in the shower, again. 

He stayed in the shower, one hour turning to three. He felt useless. 

___

“Hey, Dick! It’s Donna. Call me!”

“Dick, it’s Roy. Call me back when you get a chance, which better be as soon as you hear this fuckin’ message. Bye.”

“Dick, it’s Tim. Just leaving a message because I had a car send you twelve binders on various sci-fi movies that I assume you haven’t seen yet. Text me, let me know you’ve received them.” 

“It’s Bruce. Get out of bed.”

“Master Grayson, you haven’t been answering your calls for quite a few days now. Is everything alright? Call me, please.”

“Hey, it’s Wally. Get out bed, pick up the phone, maybe? C’mon. The team misses you, I miss you - fuck.” 

\---

Dick’s bisexuality hits him like a freight train. It’s a team-bonding day, something Dick and Donna came up with when they were first pitching ideas to each other, when Teen Titans had been an idea floating around in their minds. Now, it’s a painful reality, and he regrets the idea. Wally is sitting on the couch, eating bowls and bowls of popcorn, and Dick’s nose wrinkles. He’s grossed out, he’s fascinated, he’s obsessed. Wally’s jaw line, at the young age of 16, is defined; every time a piece of popcorn pops into his mouth, there’s a hint of a dimple. His lips, which aren’t closed for long, are full and bow-shaped, pink and -- Dick wonders if they feel as soft as they look. The freckles, at least for Dick, are the cherry on top. Multicolored and scattered across his face like constellations. Dick can’t stop staring, and boy, does he want to. He wants to, and so he tries. He looks at the television instead, but his eyes make his way back to Wally’s face. 

“Is something on my face?” Wally asks, quickly, always quickly. Dick blinked in response, caught off guard for once. 

“Yeah, man. It’s pretty bad.”

“What is it?” Wally looks genuinely concerned, and Dick wants to laugh and cry. He probably will, as soon as he gets home. As soon as he gets away. He waves at Wally’s face in general, and Wally rolls his eyes in irritation.

“Whatever, dude.”

“Aw, bro. I didn’t mean it, you look ho -- nice.” 

“Honice? That’s a word?” 

“Shut up.” With that, he decides to only watch television, even if it kills him. 

\----  
His grin felt fake. The tie around his neck was akin to a noose, suffocating him. He wasn’t Dick, tonight. Tonight, he was Richard Grayson, Ward of Bruce Wayne. He smiled winningly at everyone, trying to keep the sarcasm down to a minimum. He felt like a piece of meat -- he was prodded at, stared at, objectified. He didn’t feel like himself. 

Much like the circus, galas were a show where he was expected to perform. 

===

No one else made him feel quite like Roy did. Roy held the strongest of his emotions (contempt, annoyance, love) right in the palm of his hand, and the worst thing about him? He knew that he did. A glance at Dick’s face, and he knew exactly what he was thinking, without a word. It helped on missions, sure, but on a day to day basis, he hated it. There would always be some resentment toward Roy for knowing the parts of him that he didn’t want anyone to know about. 

Although, to be sure, he knew things about Roy. He knew when he was going to say something stupid, knew that the flicker of light in his eyes meant he had an idea. A smack of his wrist meant that he was craving. He knew that when he hummed, it was always something from his old band. He knew Roy, better than he knew himself. 

He hated Roy, but that was his best friend. There was no one else in the world, save Donna, that he would want to know about the ugly side of him -- a controlling, patronizing man that could isolate himself at the drop of a hat. That thought he wasn’t good enough for anything on the best of days. Roy, at times, knew him better than he knew himself.

He wouldn’t give that up for anything.

\--

Tim and Damian were among the many people in the world Dick would give his life for. Dick spent a ridiculous amount of time worrying about his brothers -- were they doing okay? Are they handling everything fine? Are they well-adjusted? Are they eating enough? The thoughts were intrusive, but proof that he cared. 

\---

When it was this bad, Dick liked to pretend the bed was his world. There was nothing beyond the coolness of the sheets, beyond the headboard. Everything he needed was right here, in this bed. Some days, leaving his bedroom felt like a whole thing, a production that he didn’t want to be a part of.

“The show must go on,” his mother always used to whisper the saying to him in Romani before a show. It was always accompanied with a pinch of his cheeks, an encouraging smile. 

But she wasn’t here now. She never would be.

The thought was powerful enough for Dick to roll over, a cocoon in his own little universe. He just wanted it all to end, he just wanted to feel again. The last time he checked his phone, it was piling up with messages. Reached 100 yesterday, but he didn’t have any energy to give. Giving and giving and giving had finally taken its toll on him. Dick was a drained battery, with no desire to recharge. 

Maybe today would be the day he got out of bed. Maybe today would be the day he left the house. Maybe today would be the day he stopped feeling nothing. 

But he turned over, and the numbness remained.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this years ago and i was double dared to post it & it's 2020 so why not go back to my fic writing roots


End file.
